After the Flames
by merlintriss
Summary: Set after Montag and his merry band of intellectuals has been wandering in the wilderness for a few years. Rating for possible later chapters. R
1. Chapter 1

After the Flames

Disclaimer: Do I look like Ray Bradbury?

A story set after the book, from the perspective of Montag and the group you remember from the end of the book.

It had been years since Montag and his band of intellectuals had set out from a land that was unloving of their talents and hateful of the knowledge that they possessed. The became the scholarly homeless, and traveled on roads long forgotten, where cars moving hundreds of miles an hour would have contended with natures bends and hills.

In the beginning, Montag, though not the smartest, had become the unspoken leader of the group, choosing the direction they were to travel in the wilderness. He wasn't used to the responsibility, and there were times, in the night, where he could at least admit to himself that he wanted to return to that cold house, to the 'safe' job of burning books, and to his unloving wife with her Seashell radio and her sleeping pills. .There were times when even he missed that.

It was morning, and the rest of the men sat around the fire. The one woman of their band sat back, watching as the cook of the group made a meal of their meager supplies. The woman was new to the group, but inside her head she had some of the works of Frank Herbert, the Republic, the Tempest, and the Book of Genesis. Some, not so useful, but better than nothing. Her parents had raised her on the outskirts of the city, and because no one really knew them, no one got around to sounding an alarm on a suspected family that was already in the poorhouse. She had left a few years ago, traveled around on her own until she met up with Montag, and now, she traveled with him. Not to mention the fact that she had an amazing voice, and could sing the Hallelujah chorus with ease. A little beauty in the wild never hurt anyone.

Montag's eyes flashed for a moment. He remembered Beatty and the burning, he remembered the smell of cooking flesh and the wax-doll appearance of his corpse. What was it? Live fast, die young, leave a good looking corpse? A mother wouldn't have recognized Beatty, wouldn't have been able to see her son in that jumble of contorted flesh.

Something about that girl, all lazy like, always reminded him of Beatty, of the way he seemed to make you feel guilty, especially if you'd actually done something. He was better at sniffing out people than a Mechanical Hound, only his nose was especially attuned to the scent of lying sweat and guilt.

Montag got up, walked over to a bush and relieved himself. It was going to be a long day and an even longer year, and there was no way he was going to let it start off with that Shakespeare thumping madman.

Inside his head, Montag laughed.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Again, I repeat, do I look like Ray Bradbury?

By the way, thank you for reviewing, if you did so. The warm, fluffy, puppies in my tummy wish to give you thanks. From here, of course.

The girls name was Rachel, and for reasons unknown to him, she never left his thoughts. The more he thought about her, the more he realized, he was _scared _of her. Well, maybe not _her_ exactly, but what she made him remember, the vision of a man who wanted to die. It was terrifying to him.

He tried to push her from his mind. The Reverend sat nearby, whittling of all things, on a block of wood. Granger was propped up against a rock of sorts, thinking as he often did. Rachel was watching the portable television, checking out the newest fireman's chase of a man who would not get away. Dr. Simmons sighed.

"What?" Montag asked.

"Hmm, me?" Dr. Simmons looked around a little bit, "Oh, I was thinking about all of the chases those firemen have. Ever since the city fell, their antics seem a little desperate, like they're posing for a public spectacle."

"Well, of course they are, man!" Fred said from the fire, which he was stoking, "There is no end to what they'll do to fire up the men to their cause."

"Sure there is. Beatty hid that I had a book for all the time he knew, until someone else sounded the alarm." Montag cut in, "they'll protect their own if they feel they need to."

Granger called from his rock, "They caught another wrongdoing book reader. You wouldn't believe how many there is. Think that perhaps it isn't all just a farce and they really were readers?"

Montag, "I don't know. When we get back into a populated area, I'll contact Faber. He knows some of the networks, out-of-work scholars and theologians, but I doubt that that many people have turned to the page over the screen."

The Reverend spoke up for the first time, "There could be. War does strange things to a person. I was in a platoon during a war once, and it caused me to turn to the clothe. It could cause a lesser man to turn to a book fro solace from the violence and destruction."

Montag, "But the people have been trained against reacting to that. I talked to a woman once, and she was going to move on if her husband died, without a second thought."

"Oh the barbary," Rachel said, "women have been moving on after the deaths of their husbands for centuries. Some of them killed their husbands to get into power. Keep up with your history."

"yes, but, well, she wasn't going to give it a ceremonial mourning period, just run right off and feel the love," Montag sighed, "Anymore, you die, and you're carted off to be cremated within the hour. No mourning, no customary black, no tears, just death, and then gone, probably to fertilize some field."

All went silent. Death was not always a happy topic, even though Montag was publicly dead, executed by a Mechanical Hound in a city that now resembled baking soda. He was in no fear of his life. The others, however, some of them had not left civilization so easily, and death was still a possibility, not only to them, but to the information stored in their minds.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Again, do I even look or type like Ray Bradbury? The man won't even get on planes.

Thank you to Raven-Glinda-fan, and iamari. I'm glad someone reviewed.

Days later, Montag and his merry group of intellectuals came upon another group. Their leader was a skinny blonde woman, maybe more of a girl than a woman, with long hair and a scarf wrapped mostly around her face so that no one could recognize her. Probably on the run.

The group consisted of four people, the leader, a skinny bookish man with broken glasses, a loosely clothed man of considerable stature, and a voluptuous woman hidden under a heavy black coat. All four where travel worn and weary, and they decided to join Montag's group, at least for the moment.

The voluptuous woman was talking to the Reverend. Apparently she was Mathew and Mark, but her actual name was Rebecca. Montag himself was walking in front of the group like he normally did, only this time with the blonde leader who simply didn't talk. Something about her seemed familiar, like an old friend, but he brushed that off and listened instead to the others.

Granger was talking to the bookish man about life and philosophy. Typical Granger, and apparently, typical bookworm. Looking around, Montag realized that the whole group looked like they had walked from the sewers, and some of them smelled like it too. Which wasn't that nice.

Without a push, his mind went back to Beatty. To the burning, to the death. It went to Clarice, so young, too young to have died. What was it that Mildred said 'hit by a car?' It seemed so impersonal for such a lovely person. And Mildred? Killed in that explosion and never to be seen again. He hoped she had seen herself in that brief instance before death, just so she could've seen in horror what she had become. A hollow shell of herself. Beatty burning. Clarice dying. Mildred seeing the truth.

He shook himself from those delusions. He had to focus on the facts at hand. The people around him trusted him to get them past all of the evil in the world to something supposedly good. He had led them to St. Louis and what fun that had been.

Flashback 

_St. Louis was seemed to be a million spires of silver and light. The St. Louis arch was diminished by the size of the surrounding building, and had lost it's supposed statuesque appearance. _

_It seemed like years ago since Montag had seen the Professor Faber, and he honestly didn't know if he was still alive. The city he had lived in had been bombed either right before or right after he left for St. Louis. His fellow comrades weren't really sure about going to a crowded city. Not exactly a smart idea, they said. Too many people want us dead. _

_He ignored them. _

_It was easy enough to find Faber. The city of St. Louis was equipped with it's own people 'search engine.' A Faber was there, and a new resident at that. He was sure it was him. Who else would've used the first name Macbeth to escape possible detection._

_All around him the city was geared up for the war. Propaganda posters littered the walls, and in the occasional glassy window, the group caught sight of themselves. They were dingy and dirty and people went out of their way to avoid them. _

_Montag finally found the door where Faber was. He knocked, and the door was answered by…_

Montag was shell shocked. The leader of the other group had finally undone the scarf and was sitting around the fire with the others. He suddenly realized why she was so familiar.


	4. Chapter 4

Sorry for not doing this in a while. It's really busy over here.

Flashback 

Faber answered the door, and recognizing Montag even behind his thick beard, ushered him inside.

"_What are you doing man? You're going to get us destroyed," he said, checking the doors and windows, "they might have already caught on about you being here. All the work I've done will be for naught." _

"_I had to make sure you were well," Montag managed. It had been so long. Faber had really introduced him to the real world. He was his mentor. And for some reason, he was also like a father, even if Montag didn't really know the true meaning of the word. _

"_I am well. I have met some others here who are of similar minds. A old printer friend of mine lived here and has been raising a resistance through the years. Us old intellectuals shall convert the young eventually. So, I hear you died?" _

"_I assumed you had died as well. That explosion was great," Montag grimaced, remembering his imaginings of his wife, pinned against her wall-screen as the voices faded and she was alone before she faced her annihilation. _

"_Yes, I suppose it was. What became of you?" Montag told the elderly man his story, with the bright sunlight outside and a mini-screen television inset on the wall. _

_End Flashback_

"Clarice?" Montag's voice was stunned. It was her, the girl he had known that while ago, when he was still living a lie. There she was, her straw blonde hair sitting on her hair, her body looking frailer.

"Yes, it's me," she still had that tinge of mischeviousness, even now, "I do suppose you've fared better than me, seeing as how we're both dead."

"But, what, you were ran over by a speeding car. Driven by some teenagers. You were dead, Mildred told me so," Montag managed to make out.

"No, not exactly. They ran over something, but it was not me. Anymore, they find these things on the roadways and assume, because they are mutilated beyond recognition, that they are human, and pass them off as some kid who went missing. This time, it was me. My uncle had me move underground, said I would be more appreciated there instead of in a world where lies abounded," she smiled, "I had to get out of there, Montag. I knew about everything, about why things were the way they were, and all I heard about what how strange I was."

"You were the oddest person I met," Montag acquiesced.

"Yes, I do realize that, but my uncle thought my talents would be better suited learning the world. So I am Anna Kariena and Luke," she smiled.

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	5. Chapter 5

The story continues-my apologies for being gone so long. I dealt with something a fair bit harsh, and couldn't bring myself to continue writing, but, for now, I'm back.

Disclaimer: No matter how hard I try, I'm not Ray Bradbury.

_Flashback_

"_Well, Montag, you've been doing better than I," Faber smiled, "My friend and I, we've been helping with the resistance and all, but in our own little old man ways. We've been releasing a newspaper of sorts, more of a leaflet I guess, for people of restrictive views. Been throwing them on the streets in hopes that someone will find them and change their minds. Its slow going, but Rome wasn't built in a day." _

"_All I've been doing is hiding. You're doing so much more than I," Montag groaned at the problems of being dead. _

"_Perhaps. But you live on in the peoples imagination. A martyr for the ages," Faber grinned, "Especially since all they know of you is what I say." _

"_Faber, what have you been telling the people?" _

"_Mythology, my dear friend, reverse propaganda," Faber smiled again, "You are no longer Montag the firemen, but Montag the hero."_

"You've told the people lies, how could you Faber?" 

"_I have told no such lies. I have told the truth. I told of a man, once a burner of books, who so moved by the truth of one girl, picked up a book and found that all he had known was lies," Faber looked a little chastened, "I tell no lies. My pen has no fancy for fiction." _

"_I am no hero." _

"Was Cincinnatus? Was Cesar? Was anyone of the hero's of old truly a hero except in the tales of the people that loved them?" Faber smiled again, then groaned, "But enough of this, you must return to the wilderness Montag, before they find you, dead though you are, and whomever has accompanied you on this trek." 

"_Are you sure you will not join us, Faber?" Montag wished he would. _

"_And leave my printer to continue on the good fight without a pen? No, he would be lost. The man couldn't string together an obituary. No, Montag, you must flee the city and fight a home in the country, among the others," Faber looked around suspiciously, "hurry, before someone finds out you are here. And never return here, Montag, never." _

_End Flashback _

Traveling had become stranger when his group had joined with more of the dead. Clarice, for one, had returned. In his dreams, in his mind, she had become something she was not. She had stopped being a girl whose company he subconsciously hoped for every day, and started being a myth, a legend, a girl who inspired him to change his life. How could anyone live up to that?

The two groups had ultimately decided to stay together, since seeing only three people for a very long time had a tendency to get old rather quickly. Maybe one day they would be the beginnings of an intellectual community, ripe with the knowledge of old philosophy greats. Every night, the two groups would swap segments of their knowledge, a little bit of Luke intermingled with a little bit of Frank Herbert. Not your typical scholarly session, but one that was enough to bite back the ravenous cold and the pain of memory.

The bookish one was named Tobias, and would constantly prop up his glasses in an effort to stop them from sliding off his too skinny nose. He looked like a caricature, and was indeed full of useless knowledge. Back in the 'real' world, he had been a engineer of sorts, lost in a world of nozzles and tubes, until a man he had known since birth had started to convince him that there was more to the world than sitting at home in front of the view screen, or being infatuated with the lives of inanimate objects. Unfortunately, he still was a tedious bore, who once you knew him for long enough, had a voice like a drone. He was, however, a man of a lighthearted spirit, and that made up for his propensity towards talking.

Ah, but to see Clarice again. She was still a pretty girl, and Montag far her senior. Attractive yes, but now far out of his range, both by age and by experience. Since he had escaped a life of lies, he had realized that before he had been only a child, and that now he was truly an adult, after years of pretending to be one. How could he return to being a child, by falling into the arms of a child? It wasn't that she wasn't pretty, intellectually stimulating, or anything like that. In the days he had spent with her after her death, he had discovered that he did not love her, like what he thought before. He was infatuated with the idea of her, the beauty of her, and the fact that she had been his savior.

The Reverend had decided on the camp site, and declared that today would be his day to speak, and so he spoke. 'Lies,' the other world would say, 'ugly, hideous, sad, traitorous. Why not hide from it, hide from it all?' Here though, here in the wild, they all heard the truth and as if with one mind, Montag spoke, 'Beautiful.'

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